


it's such a feeling that my love i can't hide

by jooheon



Series: when i'm sixty-four [3]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooheon/pseuds/jooheon
Summary: It was strange to think the words, but Haru couldn’t help it, especially in the little moments, like waking up next to Makoto in their new bed, or watching Makoto squint through his reading glasses at a pile of tax forms spread over the living room table, or sharing a quiet dinner together: they’d grown up.//or, the one in which they move back to Iwatobi and begin a new chapter of their life together.
Relationships: Nanase Haruka/Tachibana Makoto
Series: when i'm sixty-four [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/202916
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	it's such a feeling that my love i can't hide

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I'm back because I'll never not have thoughts about this AU! It's been forever since I started this but recently I just felt like continuing it. Please enjoy!
> 
> ※ Haru and Makoto are ~31. This takes place 5 years after [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208181). 
> 
> ※ I wrote most of this before DTF came out, lol. This fic was already canon divergent but it's only gotten more so the more content has been released. The Makoto that doesn't know how to cook is the only true Makoto in my heart!!

The Nanases, as predictably unpredictable as ever, decided to buy a condo in Australia. 

“It’s a lovely country!” Haru’s mother told him brightly. “I guess you know that already. But we’ve only been a few times, and we do love it so much… we wanted to have a little home base!”

“So we’re thinking of selling the old place in Iwatobi,” his father continued. “It’s just sitting up there empty now, anyway, and _you’re_ not likely to use it anytime soon, are you?”

Haru wasn’t — he hadn’t even been back to Iwatobi in years — but he was suddenly seized by a rare impulse of nostalgia. Vivid memories rushed to the surface: the warmth of his grandmother’s voice reading aloud fantastic stories of the sea, and adventure, and romance, lulling him to a peaceful sleep; the howling of the wind and the distant crash of the tide on lonely nights; the tricky gas burner that you had to press on _just so_ or it would never light; Makoto’s footsteps on the stairs as Haru soaked distractedly in his morning bath. The last one made him smile.

“Don’t sell it,” he said. 

As easily as the whim had come to them to sell it, Haru’s parents agreed to leave it for the time being. Then they were off for Australia, and Haru was left with the vague task of “maintaining” the Iwatobi house. 

“What will that entail?” Makoto asked curiously. 

“They aren’t any bills to pay, I don’t think,” Haru said, “so maybe they just mean… checking in? Making sure there’s no bug infestations or anything… airing out the rooms… I don’t know.”

“My parents could do it,” Makoto offered. His parents, and Ren, still lived in their house down the steps. 

“If it’s only once or twice a year, I could do it myself,” Haru said. “I wouldn’t mind going back a little more often.”

He meant it at the time, of course. But eight months later, when he found himself actually returning to Iwatobi, the circumstances had wiped all the haze of sentimentality from his mind. He spent the train ride in sullen silence as Makoto dozed comfortably on his shoulder, and when they finally arrived and he inhaled that cool, fresh air, kissed with the clean salt of the sea, as he looked around at the familiar, tiny station, he thought rather pathetically that he would rather be anywhere but here. 

It didn’t help that one of his old posters was plastered up on the station wall: CHASE YOUR DREAM, it encouraged in bold-print English, WITH POCARI. The photo was of Haru, shirtless and dripping wet, one arm bent behind his head and the other brandishing an energy drink. Haru pulled his scarf up above his mouth.

“My, my,” Makoto murmured, waggling his eyebrows, “how risqué! Who’s _that_ good-looking guy?”

Haru hadn’t stopped being irritated, but he still mumbled through the scarf, “Pretty sure that guy has a boyfriend.” Makoto beamed. 

They made it nearly all the way to the house without anyone recognizing and accosting Haru, but then right on the steps there was old Mrs. Tamura’s granddaughter. She was a little older than they were — Haru remembered meeting her one summer vacation when he was an elementary schooler and she a worldly teenager — and possessed of all the open congeniality of the Tamura line. 

“If it isn’t Nanase the Olympian!” she exclaimed happily. “And Makoto Tachibana! How are you both?”

Makoto and Haru replied that they were both good. Ms. Tamura pressed on:

“But what on earth brings you to little old Iwatobi this late in the season? Nanase, shouldn’t you be training up? Los Angeles is right around the corner!”

“As a matter of fact, _I’m_ what brought us here,” Makoto said smoothly. “I’ve earned my teaching license, and starting in April I’ll be teaching down at Iwatobi Elementary.”

“Oh!” Ms. Tamura said, evidently pleased. “How lovely! My son is in elementary school now, you know…” 

Thus diverted, she dropped the subject of Haru altogether, and eventually sent them on their way after insisting that they accept a plateful of homemade shortbread cookies. Haru was grateful to have avoided interrogation, but it occurred to him, 

“She’s our neighbor. We should have just told her.”

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want to tell anyone,” Makoto said patiently. 

“It’ll be all over the news within a week,” Haru said a little bitterly. “She’ll know pretty soon anyway.”

“Then there’s no need to tell her, is there,” Makoto said gently. “Come on. Let’s not think about that right now.”

Haru didn’t ever _really_ stop thinking about it, but he did push it to the back of his mind for the next few days as he threw himself into cleaning up the house. It wasn’t in complete disrepair, but it was dusty and a touch mildewed in places, and much of the furniture needed replacing. Makoto was dispatched to the nearest home goods store to order a new bed and new tatami, and Haru threw open all the windows and doors, tied a rag over his nose and mouth, and dusted fiercely. Luckily there were no infestations, though he did find a number of solitary spiders taking up residence in dark corners. Those, he released into the garden; the lone centipede he stumbled upon met a much sorrier fate. He couldn’t take any chances — Makoto was terrified of centipedes. 

The Tachibanas had them over for dinner the first night, and offered them Makoto’s old room to sleep in until the new bed came, but Haru firmly declined. He didn’t think it would be entirely appropriate to debauch their eldest son in the room where he used to wet the bed, and he had no intentions of _not_ debauching him.

But he did accept the Tachibanas’ offer of loaning them a queen-sized air mattress, and so Haru and Makoto spent their first night in Iwatobi laughing and bouncing uncomfortably on the mattress in the center of the old house’s master bedroom. 

“This is probably terrible for your back,” Makoto said at one point, rolling onto his side. Haru propped himself up on one elbow.

“Probably,” he conceded, and then he leaned down to kiss Makoto passionately, effectively cutting off any further nagging. 

When he woke up in the morning, his back _was_ aching a little, so he decided to run himself a hot bath. He sank into the water, sans swimsuit, and let the familiarity of it wash over him. He couldn’t decide if it was funny or sad that thirteen years out, he was following the same routine he’d had in high school. Downstairs there was even mackerel in the fridge, waiting to be grilled. And of course, when the water had gone tepid, Makoto shuffled in sleepily, reached out his hand and said, “It’s almost like you _want_ to catch a cold.”

Haru took the hand, but this wasn’t high school anymore. Instead of traipsing out to get dressed by himself, he stood, naked, and kissed Makoto until he complained, “ _Haru_ , you’re getting me all wet!” and then they both returned to the air mattress for a while longer. 

Once they had breakfasted — mackerel for Haru and toast for Makoto — there was no rush to school, no rush to do anything at all. Makoto would be starting work in the spring and Haru would have to find a job, eventually, but for now at least, their time was all their own. The weather was nice, so they opened the sliding doors to the yard and spent a while in the sunshine, Makoto cross-legged on the veranda with a book and Haru out on the lawn doing his stretches. He didn’t feel them making any monumental difference, personally, but Makoto would nag him if he didn’t do them daily. 

Certain people (Rin) had expressed concern that Haru moving away from the team of physical therapists he’d been seeing might mean that his back might _never_ get better — might actually get worse. That was silly for a couple of reasons: one, Haru’s back was already quite a bit better than it had been, and his PT sessions had been reduced to only once every two weeks. Two, as Makoto had laughingly put it, “they _do_ have doctors outside of Tokyo, you know.” 

But Haru knew that certain people (Rin) were really just upset about his decision to leave Tokyo. They had argued about it even. Wasn’t this just him giving up? Wasn’t this him _abandoning_ his team, his sport, his passion? His friends? Was he really okay with that?

That just went to show you that certain people had no tact. Of course Haru wasn’t okay with it. But staying in Tokyo and watching certain people shoot forward, compete, and win without him was an even worse prospect. Maybe he _was_ running away, but at least right now — in this familiar old house, with Makoto warm and near at hand, the day so clear and the early autumn foliage so bright — it didn’t feel like such a terrible thing. 

  
  
  


Goro stopped by shortly after the news broke about Haru’s retirement. 

“It’s sad to hear, but I’m still so proud of you,” he said affectionately, clapping Haru on the shoulder. “We all are. You know that, don’t you?”

Haru did know. 

“If you’re ever in need of an ego boost,” Goro went on, “just stop on by the old SC. The kids are all big fans, and they’d really get a kick out of meeting you.”

The prospect of interacting with Goro’s hordes of hyperactive children didn’t interest Haru in the slightest, but…

“Could I use your pool?” 

“For swimming?” Goro said, astonished. “You’re injured, I thought?”

“I’ll just float,” Haru said. He sensed, rather than saw, Makoto’s smile. 

“Well,” Goro said dubiously, “if your health permits it, of course our doors are always open to you. Use the pool whenever you want.”

The offer smelled of charity, which Haru was loathe to accept, but then again, this was Goro. An old friend. He’d probably have made the same offer even if Haru’d never been injured — even if he’d never made it to the Olympics, made it big enough to have sportswear endorsement posters to pin up on locker room walls. 

Also, a pool was a pool. 

“Okay,” Haru told him. “I will.”

He and Makoto went together, the very next week, and, per Goro’s prediction, the young members of the club spent a long while fawning over Haru loudly. Unexpectedly, Makoto had a fan there too: one of Goro’s part-timers, a high-schooler, remembered “Coach Tachibana” from that fateful summer so long ago. 

“Can I get a picture?” the kid asked, laughing a little. “My older sister’s gonna flip, she had the biggest crush on you.” 

“Ah,” Makoto said, blushing. Still, after all these years, caught off guard by the notion of his own attractiveness. “Sure, that’s fine.”

“Good thing she’s married already,” the kid said as he sent the photo. “What about you, Coach?”

“Me?” Makoto said, eyebrows shooting up. “Married? I’m not, no.”

That was factually true, but stung in a way Haru couldn’t quite articulate. He brushed it off, let it slide off his back as he slipped out of his clothes, and by the time he was submerged in the water, doing a leisurely crawl — “You said you were gonna _float,_ Haruka!” — nothing seemed to matter. Not Goro, not his back, and certainly not some throwaway comment about his boyfriend’s relationship status. Reality was quiet, muted beyond the spray and splash. Probably sooner or later Makoto was going to drag him out of the pool so he didn’t strain his back or whatever, but until then Haru was free to just swim, and swim. 

  
  
  


Iwatobi was the same as ever, but different. Most everything looked unchanged from Haru’s school days, but there were subtle tweaks. Properties around the train station had changed hands: what was once a humble ramen shop was now a trendy-looking American-style cafe; a family-run convenience store had been replaced by a Lawson. But most of the buildings, and the general feeling of the area, and the smell of it, and the colors — those were all the same. 

Still, Haru felt the offness sometimes. He felt it in the giggling teenagers who asked him for his autograph outside the drug store, and the whispers that occasionally followed him around town, and the posters still pinned up, not just in the station but all around, that had his face on them. He felt it in the five centimeter gap between himself and Makoto whenever they were walking out in public. In Tokyo, they’d linked arms; abroad, they’d held hands. 

One Sunday morning as the days were cooling, Haru said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Makoto said, bemused. 

Haru shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

The local car rental service wasn’t a busy place. The staff, who’d clearly been lounging around chatting before Haru and Makoto walked in, sprang to their feet with bright smiles and ushered them to a selection of travel guides. Without thinking, Haru picked one at random. 

“Ever been here?” he said, opening up the pamphlet and pointing to a picture of a remote, scenic waterfall. Makoto shook his head. “We’re going.”

They spent nearly two hours in the car, Makoto driving and humming along to the pop ballads on the radio, Haru looking out the window as the trees blurred past, snapping the occasional picture with his smartphone. Signs directed them to a bumpy, pot-holed road that culminated in a gravel parking lot, where only three other cars were parked. One was a midsize tour bus that gave Haru pause — if it was a school trip of some sort, he was definitely going to be recognized — but it turned out to contain a gaggle of elderly Chinese tourists who paid them no mind. 

The waterfall was apparently a 1.5 kilometer hike away. Makoto said, “We’re not wearing the shoes for it,” but that turned out not to matter. It was a gentle, sloping path, wide and well-trod, and they could have made good time even in their casual clothes. Instead, they walked slowly, dappled in sunlight, arms swinging ever so slightly, so that their fingers would catch every once in a while. 

It occurred to Haru that of all the time they’d been together in their adult life — going on six years now — very little of it had been peaceful like this, far away from the fast-paced world of professional sports. The free time they did have, when Haru wasn’t training and Makoto wasn’t working, was always narrowly bookended by serious obligations. They’d taken vacations, of course, but usually spent them with some deadline or other looming in the backs of their minds. 

“I never thought to come out here,” Makoto remarked as they drew closer to the falls. “It’s not the kind of place we ever visited for school trips, is it?”

“No,” Haru said. He interlocked his pinky finger with Makoto’s. “I like it, though.”

“I like it, too,” Makoto said quietly.

They came to the base of the falls and joined the sparse gathering of visitors gazing up at the elegant column of water. Haru thought that even if he were a grade schooler, he’d have enjoyed this: the tranquil greenery, the beautiful lines of the water arcing downward into the great clear pond, and Makoto standing beside him all the while. 

It wasn’t quite like being a kid again, but being here was refreshing in a way that reminded Haru of his childhood. It didn’t cancel out the frustration of having been forced to retire, but it was as though a freedom had been restored: there was nothing stopping him and Makoto from doing what they wanted. From walking away from the responsibilities and mundanities of daily life, getting away from it all, and just _being_ together. 

Haru didn’t care if the people around them saw. He drew close to Makoto’s side and nestled his head on that sturdy shoulder, felt Makoto lean into the contact. 

“Yeah,” he said again. “I really like this.”

  
  
  


It was strange to think the words, but Haru couldn’t help it, especially in the little moments, like waking up next to Makoto in their new bed, or watching Makoto squint through his reading glasses at a pile of tax forms spread over the living room table, or sharing a quiet dinner together: they’d grown up. He didn’t know when it had happened, but it must have, because here was Makoto, talking on the phone about health insurance, calling the plumber about the sound the toilet was making, falling asleep before ten on a Saturday night. Grown-up things.

And yet.

“I can’t believe you still don’t know how to properly fry an egg,” Haru said, scraping the burnt remains out of the skillet. 

“I tried so hard,” Makoto said forlornly. He came up behind Haru and rested his chin on Haru’s shoulder. “I wanted to make breakfast for you.”

“And instead, I’m cleaning up your mess _and_ making breakfast for the both of us,” Haru said. “Interesting.”

“I’m sorry,” Makoto said, nipping at Haru’s ear. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Will you?” Haru set the skillet down in the sink and turned around. “How?”

Just as Makoto was presumably about to show him how, the doorbell rang. Haru grumbled, “Ignore it,” and Makoto looked like he was on the verge of agreeing, but then there came the sound of the door opening anyway, and a familiar voice called, 

“I’m coming in. You better be decent.”

Makoto jumped away from Haru, startled. 

“Rin?” he yelped.

“We really need to lock our door,” Haru grumbled.

Rin walked into the kitchen, waved hello, and then frowned. “Haru. I guess it could have been worse.” He was pointedly eyeing Haru’s outfit of boxers and a penguin apron (courtesy of Nagisa — a housewarming gift from the Tokyo apartment).

“Why are you here?” Haru said impatiently. 

“Hi Rin,” said Makoto weakly. 

“Hey, Makoto,” Rin said. “I’m here to check on your nudist boyfriend, of course. And to pitch some job offers, because he’s apparently not answering his phone or email.”

“I don’t want a job,” Haru said. 

“You haven’t even heard the offer!” Rin protested. When Haru only blinked, stone-faced, in response, Rin rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell Misaki-chan I didn’t try, okay?”

Misaki was Haru’s agent. “Whatever.”

“Would you like some breakfast, Rin?” Makoto offered cautiously. 

Rin glanced at the burnt egg mess in the sink and made a face. “Maybe… y’know, maybe we could go out somewhere to eat?”

The American-style cafe near the train station was the only eatery open this early in the morning. 

“This place any good?” Rin said, peering in through the windows at the simple wood-furnished interior. The walk into town seemed to have lifted his spirits a little — that, or the fact that Haru had (begrudgingly) put on some real clothes.

“I wouldn’t know, we’ve never been,” Makoto said. He gave a sheepish smile. “I guess we don’t get out enough.”

“Like there’s even that much to get out _to,_ ” Rin said as he walked inside. 

Despite his highfalutin Tokyo city boy act, though, Rin was nothing but sweet to the waitress who greeted them and then shrieked, “You’re Matsuoka! From the — oh my god! And — you’re Nanase!?” After a round of enthusiastic hand-shaking and a few pictures, the three of them were seated around a small table and looking at a tall, laminated menu. 

“What’s your recommendation?” Rin asked the smitten waitress. 

“The pancakes with fresh fruit are very popular,” she said, glowing. 

“Then I’ll have that. And hot coffee, black.”

“I’d like an order of French toast with a side of sausages, please,” Makoto said. “And,” he glanced at Haru, “another order of the pancakes with fruit. And an iced coffee and an orange juice.”

“Will that be all?”

“That’s all.”

As the waitress walked away, Rin was staring at Makoto. 

“What?” Makoto said. 

“Nothing.” Rin smiled. “Just, you two really don’t change, y’know?”

A memory flashed through Haru’s mind, nearly a decade old: a 24-hour diner in Shinjuku down the street from his crummy apartment, Kisumi showing up unannounced at 6am on a Saturday to drag him to breakfast, boisterous and bouncy and clearly still drunk from a long Friday night out. Rin and Sousuke were there too, but had already progressed to the haggardly hungover stage. Apparently none of them were ready for the hour-long train ride across town to Sousuke’s, where Rin was staying at the time, and had decided to hit up Haru because he lived in the neighborhood. When Haru slid into the booth across from them, Sousuke’d grunted and Rin had groaned. 

“Haru,” Rin had said crustily, “where’s your other half?”

And that little sentence had cut deep and stuck with him, made him feel so, _so_ lonely. Not only because he and Makoto were broken up and hadn’t spoken in months, but because Rin — one of Haru’s closest friends in the world, no matter how much they bickered — didn’t know about it, hadn’t even known they were dating. No one had known. So the only person Haru could talk to about it was the one person who wouldn’t talk to him. 

“Beats me,” he’d said with a shrug, his throat tight, and then Rin had changed the subject.

Now, with Rin looking at the two of them fondly from across the table, Haru felt a swell of happiness. He reached for Makoto’s hand and held it, over the table, and watched color flood Makoto’s cheeks. 

“We changed a little,” Haru said.

  
  
  


They spent nearly every other weekend out of town, on little roadtrip getaways to nearby ryokan. Makoto wasn’t working yet, so they had the time, and Haru’d made a fortune off brand deals as an athlete, so they had the money; so why the hell not? The staff at the car rental agency came to know them by name, and kept a list of all the guidebook locations that Haru and Makoto visited. They didn’t usually go far — Makoto was still needlessly worried about how Haru’s back would fare after long car trips — but one Wednesday in December, Haru surprised the car rental staff by responding to the their breezy query of “Where to this time?” with, “Kyoto.”

“Whoa,” the staff said, eyebrows shooting up, “you can plug it into the GPS, but we don’t carry anything on Kyoto here.” The guidebooks they had were mostly on onsen, festivals, and nature walks around the prefecture.

“That’s okay,” Haru said. “We’ll figure it out.”

It was a four and a half hour drive, including the unintentional detour they took after missing the entrance to the toll road and the pit stop they made for delicious, hole-in-the-wall ramen. When they arrived at the ryokan they’d booked, it was already well past dinner hours, and so they dined in on convenience store rice balls before heading to the bath.

“How’s your back?” Makoto asked as he stepped out of his pants, because he was a mother hen and wouldn’t give the back thing a rest no matter how much Haru tried to convince him to drop it. 

“It’s fine,” Haru said exasperatedly. Then, in a softer tone, “Wash it for me?”

The suite they had booked was massive, a splurge Haru normally wouldn’t go for, but they’d chosen it because of the private open-air bath. Inside the shower room, Haru sudsed shampoo through his hair as Makoto lathered jasmine body wash all over his back, kneading his hands firmly through the knots in Haru’s shoulder blades, blunt nails scraping gently at the nape of Haru’s neck, palms purposefully tracing every inch of his skin. Haru looked into the mirror and saw Makoto looking intently at him, and he shuddered.

“I want to wash yours,” he said, and they switched, Haru kneeling at Makoto’s back, kissing it first, gently. He’d always had a thing for Makoto’s back and shoulders, and probably always would. The muscles weren’t quite as defined as they’d been when Makoto was swimming every day, but the power was still there, and the breadth, and Haru took his time working the body wash into the skin, massaging in slow circles. After rinsing it off he didn’t stop massaging, and lowered his mouth to the back of Makoto’s neck, kissing, then licking. His hands reached forward to find Makoto’s nipples, sensitive and already firm, and squeeze them, making Makoto arch his back. He could see in the mirror: Makoto’s arousal, flushed and hard between his legs. The sight of it, and the feeling of Makoto shuddering minutely under Haru’s attentive tongue, was almost too hot to bear. 

“ _Haru_ ,” Makoto whined. “Let’s—”

The shower room was steamy and sweet-smelling, and droplets of warm water still clung to Makoto’s body as he turned around, pushing the stool aside, to kneel facing Haru and kiss him fervently, desperately. They were on their knees together, bodies flush, and Haru felt like such a teenager, but he didn’t want to wait, didn’t want to think ahead; he just wanted to feel Makoto against him, wanted to make him come. He took one hasty pump of body wash and slicked his hand around both of their erections, stroking hard. Makoto gasped, and the sound of it echoed in the small room. 

This was how they’d started: hurried handjobs in the shower after school, circular arguments about who’d be putting what into where, arguments that ended with them just impatiently rutting against each other, moaning until it didn’t matter, Haru seeing stars as he came and loving the feeling of Makoto panting heavily against his shoulder in the aftermath. At the time they hadn’t 100% known all the mechanics of actually having Real Sex anyway; they knew it was something they wanted to do, but they were both so horny in the meantime that it didn’t particularly matter _how_ they got off, as long as they got off. 

That wasn’t true anymore, but here Haru was nevertheless, jerking off his boyfriend in the fogged-up private bath, kissing him sloppily and tasting Makoto’s every trembling breath, like they were eighteen again and so frenzied and hormonal that just rubbing against each other felt like the absolute height of ecstasy. Makoto swore as he came, knees buckling, then nuzzled at Haru’s neck as he rode out his own orgasm. When they’d both recovered their breath a bit, Makoto said with a laugh, 

“Are we gonna actually go in the bath now?”

“As long as you don’t fall asleep in it,” Haru said, reaching for the shower nozzle to rinse them down again. 

They soaked together in the open-air tub, lit by cool moonlight peeking into the garden through an overhead spray of decorative bamboo shoots. The hot water felt nice in the crisp winter air, and nicer still was just the simple shape of Makoto in the tub behind him, thighs straddling Haru’s, arms encircling Haru’s midsection. 

“You’re clingy,” Haru said, but leaned into the embrace. 

“I can’t believe we didn’t even make it to the bed,” Makoto said absently. “I feel like a high schooler.”

“We’ll get to the bed eventually,” Haru promised. “I’m going to do things to you that would have made your high school self faint.”

“ _Haru!_ ”

They fucked in the bed, twice. Actual, bonafide Real Sex. Haru’s back was definitely going to ache the next day, but he was determined not to care, and for once, Makoto didn’t mention it either. He just nestled down in the pillows, intertwined his fingers with Haru’s, and conked out.

“Old man,” Haru whispered affectionately.

Makoto only snored in response. And all Haru could think was how beautiful he looked, and how beautiful he would look bathed in the morning light the next day when he sleepily blinked awake, and how delicious he’d sound, a throaty “Morning, Haru,” and how damn lucky Haru was to be able to have all of this _all the time_. He was guilty of taking Makoto for granted — much more when they were younger, but even now, still, sometimes — but once in a while it would just slam into him with breathtaking clarity: this was It. They didn’t have many big romantic or dramatic moments, but what they had was the real deal, and he knew Makoto loved him, of course, but occasionally it still made his heart swell unbearably to think that Makoto, this strange and perfect angel, would choose to be with Haru, of all people. 

He leaned over to press a goodnight kiss to Makoto’s forehead, and then he turned off the lights.

  
  
  


The next morning, Haru said that he wanted to go to a popular tourist shopping district, and Makoto’s eyebrows shot up.

“You willingly want to go somewhere crowded?” he said skeptically. “Are you sure?”

“I want to look at the artisan crafts,” Haru said, which was true. 

Makoto still seemed unconvinced, but he shrugged and said, “Alright,” and they set off by midmorning. 

Haru refused to wear a mask or a cap, and so a few times on their way they were stopped by fans asking to take pictures. Most of them seemed jazzed just to be seeing Haru in person; one very nice young woman said she’d cried upon hearing the news of Haru’s retirement, but that she hoped he was doing well and that his back was feeling better. 

“It’s much better,” Haru told her gently, “thank you for your support.”

But the deeper they got into the tourist district, the fewer people seemed to recognize Haru. There were a multitude of foreigners, and Haru’s head spun with all the different languages being spoken around him. It was a little reminiscent of being back on the national team and going abroad, participating in the whirlwind vortex of cultures, except here, he was just watching from the periphery, with room to step back and breathe. 

“I want to eat oden,” Haru announced as they passed a seemingly very popular food stall. The line stretched over half a city block. 

“Ooh, that does sound good,” Makoto said. “We better get in line now, I guess.”

“You wait in line, I’m going to go back and get another one of those steamed buns,” Haru said. “I’ll be right back.”

Makoto looked a little surprised, but nodded, “Okay, I’ll be here, then.”

When Haru finally returned, a little out of breath, Makoto was faithfully waiting with the rapidly cooling oden. His nose had turned pink with the cold. 

“I thought maybe you got lost,” he said with a little laugh, but he looked concerned.

“Sorry,” Haru said. “There was a long line there, too.”

Makoto looked pointedly at Haru’s empty hands. “Where are the buns?”

“They were… sold out.”

Makoto looked suspicious now. “Haru…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Haru said quickly. The small box now sitting in his coat pocket suddenly felt like a lead weight. “Let’s eat before this gets cold.”

Makoto let the matter drop, but over the next few hours, as they visited some famous temples, Haru could tell it was eating at him. He was quiet as they made their way through the streets of Gion and back towards the river, which normally Haru wouldn’t mind, but that box felt heavier with ever step, and his chest writhed with hot anxiety, until finally he couldn’t take it any longer. He needed to free the weight. 

“Can we walk along the river?” he said, tugging at Makoto’s sleeve and pointing to a wide gravel footpath beside the icy water. Hardly anyone was down there in this weather, and it looked to be a welcome respite from the bustling crowd on the sidewalks and the bridge.

“Sure,” Makoto said warily.

The sun was beginning to set over the city, and the lights of all the fancy restaurants overlooking the river were slowly flickering on, reflected in a glittering starscape on the water’s surface. Ahead of them on the footpath was an old couple walking their dog, the woman chattering away animatedly and the husband nodding every so often and pulling on the energetic dog’s leash. They looked like a matched set, part of the scenery, and it was the sight of them, more than anything, that made Haru think, _I’ve waited long enough_.

“Okay,” Haru said, stopping abruptly. “Makoto.”

“Haru, _what_?” Makoto said impatiently. “You’ve been acting so weird all day. Is something wrong? Are you okay? I — Haru, why are you getting down on one knee? Haru—!”

His fingers were cold, so he fumbled with the clasp on the box a few times before finally getting it right, popping it open to reveal the simple silver band inside. Makoto’s face had gone completely slack, and he was gaping down at Haru with eyes wide as saucers.

“Makoto,” Haru said. “I know we live together already, and I know legally it’d be complicated. I don’t care about that, and I don’t care about having a wedding, either. I just want — I need you to know that I’m serious about spending the rest of my life with you. No matter what kind of life it is, and things have been so uncertain for me lately, but… no matter what, if you’re there, I’ll be happy. I love you, Makoto. Marry me.”

Makoto dropped to his knees on the dirt path, his eyes now shining with tears. He took Haru’s freezing hands in his own and said, “Yes, Haru, yes! I love you, I’ll marry you… shit, I love you so much, of course I’ll marry you!”

Hands still clasped, they leaned forward in sync until their lips met in a slow, tender kiss, and then Haru pulled back enough to mumble, “Can I put the ring on you?”

Makoto said giddily, “Yes, yes. Haru… I can’t believe this… we’ve never really talked about, like, _actual_ marriage…”

“I like our life now,” Haru said, sliding the ring onto Makoto’s finger and letting him admire it in the evening lamplight. “I don’t think actual marriage will change anything, really. But that’s the point. I should have asked years ago — I’ve never flat-out said — that I want to be by your side. Until the end.”

Makoto leaned in again for another short kiss. “I’ll never leave your side. You didn’t have to even ask, Haru.”

“I know,” Haru said. “But I wanted to.”

  
  
  


“So he snuck off to pick up the ring while he made me buy oden, and I waited for so long I thought he was like, kidnapped by fans or something,” Makoto gushed, “and for the rest of the day he was being super weird, and then suddenly, we were walking by the river, and _out of nowhere_ he just knelt down and proposed! I was practically in shock. Here’s the ring, do you want to see the ring? It’s hand-crafted, special order. It’s cool, right?”

“Okay, I’m happy for you and everything, Mako-chan,” Nagisa said, elbows propped on the kotatsu, “but like, you do _hear_ yourself right now, don’t you?”

“Let me have my moment,” Makoto shoots back, pouting, “I just got engaged, this is all I’m gonna talk about for at least the next week!”

“I really picked the wrong time to visit,” Nagisa said, examining his cuticles. “If I wanted to hear about lovey-dovey married-couple stuff, I’d hang out with Rin. The _reason_ you and Haru-chan are fun to visit is ’cause you don’t act gross.”

“Nagisa,” Haru said, deadpan, emerging from the kitchen with a bowl of tangerines, “is it gross to you that me and Makoto are in a relationship?”

“Don’t play the self-righteous homo with me, Haru-chan, I’ve been rooting for you two to get together since high school,” Nagisa said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve also been single for five years and watching every last one of my friends get married around me, so frankly I think you’re being insensitive to my situation.”

“Gou’s not married,” Makoto ventured, absently fingering the ring. 

“Gou doesn’t count,” Nagisa said, thought about it for a moment, reconsidered. “Is she in town too, do you think?”

Haru shrugged. 

“Well, whatever,” Nagisa said, plucking a tangerine from the bowl and peeling it messily. “I am happy for you guys, though. Are you gonna be okay at your job, Mako-chan?”

“My job?” 

Something cold churned in the pit of Haru’s stomach. He sat opposite Makoto at the kotatsu, tucked his knees under the blanket. Makoto was looking at Nagisa with an odd expression on his face. 

“Yeah, like,” Nagisa went on, “they know about you and Haru-chan, right?”

“No,” Makoto said slowly. “Well, maybe. The school board director knows Haru and I live together — that’s why he more or less promised me the placement at Iwatobi Elementary. So, he might know. He could have told the school. I don’t know, really. I don’t think it’ll be an issue.”

“Mm,” Nagisa said. He popped a tangerine segment into his mouth and continued: “Ai-chan is gay, too, you know, and he lost his job at the ward office because of it, apparently. You remember Ai-chan?”

Haru didn’t, but Makoto nodded, frowning. “Nitori, from Samezuka.”

Oh. The diminutive gray-haired thing who’d followed Rin around like a lapdog. Haru remembered.

“That was a while ago, though,” Nagisa said. In went another tangerine segment. “And Ai-chan was… conspicuous.”

“So you think Makoto’ll be fine as long as we don’t flaunt it?” Haru said. He could feel the irritation prickling under his skin, but if he snapped at Nagisa now, Makoto would be upset.

“I think you’ll be fine no matter what,” Nagisa said matter-of-factly. “If the school board director already knows, it must be fine. And it’s not like the community would protest. Everyone in this town is crazy about you two.”

“That’s not really…” Makoto protested, flushing. 

“This town doesn’t know us,” Haru said. “We just moved here a couple months ago.”

“Everyone in the country knows you, Haru,” Nagisa said. Having finished his tangerine, he licked the juice from his fingers. “You’re a celebrity. And Mako-chan, you’re a good-looking guy with delts to die for and a heart of gold. Of course people love you.”

“Hey,” Haru warned, raising an eyebrow, “you better not be making a move on my fiance.”

Makoto sighed dreamily. “ _Fiance_. I love that.”

“Oh my god, like I said, you guys are gross,” Nagisa said, taking another tangerine. “And you’re gonna be fine. Just go out in public and act like this, all the housewives will totally melt.”

That tied the topic up neatly for the duration of Nagisa’s visit, but Haru knew it was more complicated than that. He’d always known they’d have to talk about this eventually: how their relationship was more dangerous to Makoto’s career than to Haru’s. If Haru wanted to come out, it was unlikely to affect any of his existing partnerships or future business opportunities as a pro athlete — if anything, it would open up opportunities for advocacy work. But for Makoto, there was no potential gain, only the possibility that employers could use it against him. It wasn’t a high likelihood, but it also wasn’t zero. Haru knew that. 

And yet he’d still proposed. Maybe out of selfishness, or possessiveness — because he and Makoto _were_ together, damn it, and he was tired of pretending he didn’t care when strangers hit on his boyfriend in public, tired of ignoring assumptions that they were just friends, worn down by thousands of tiny little moments of people being wrong about one of the most important things in his life. Or maybe it had been just some kind of wishful thinking, a hopeful gesture towards a world where he _could_ just up and marry Makoto without worrying about any kind of backlash. Where they could wear matching rings and lock arms as they walked along the beach and people could just look at them and know that they belonged to each other.

But that wasn’t this world, not yet. Haru told Makoto, “Don’t wear the ring if it’s going to get you in trouble with the school board—” but Makoto wouldn’t hear it.

“I want to wear it everywhere and always,” he said. “I never want to take it off.”

“You could lose your job,” Haru said. “And it’d be a huge waste, you haven’t even started yet.”

“I won’t lose my job,” Makoto said, waving his hand dismissively.

“You could, though,” Haru pushed. “It’s not worth it.”

“You think you’re not worth more than a job to me?” Makoto said quietly.

“I think you could maybe lose your job,” Haru said, “but you’re never going to lose me.” Makoto softened. “It’s just a ring. I just — I want people to know you’re mine, but if it’s going to jeopardize your career, it can wait. For now, _we_ know, and that’s what matters most.”

“You’re right,” Makoto said. “I still wanna wear it though.”

Haru wanted him to wear it too — that was why he bought the damn thing, after all — but he swallowed that down and stood firm. “Your job comes first.”

Makoto laughed in easy acquiescence. “Fine. I love you, Haru.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of Haru’s mouth.

Haru pulled Makoto in for another kiss, and another, long and slow and familiar in a way that they both knew meant: _I love you, too_. 

  
  
  


When Misaki, his agent, finally got too pissed off to ignore, Haru agreed to make the trek into Tokyo for four days of appearances, interviews, and contract signings. He’d thought that he’d completely taken care of all the necessary arrangements for his retirement, but it turned out that suddenly dropping off the face of the earth did not in fact satisfy the general public. In his more spiteful moments he would think: _I swam for myself, and then I quit. I don’t owe them anything_. 

Then he’d be overcome by a wave of contrition and remember the piles and piles of fanmail he’d received through the years, and the crowds who used to greet him at airports, and the thunderous cheers as he leapt from the starting block, and sweet fans like the one back in Kyoto who’d asked so earnestly after his wellbeing, and he’d think: _Maybe I owe them this much, at least._

Talking about the car accident, finally, now that it was months and months behind him, was like getting a plaster cast off of a fractured limb. He’d spent so long not touching the point of injury, intentionally structuring his life around avoiding it, that he hadn’t noticed at all the fact that he _could_ touch it now, without any of the anguish he’d been expecting. It was tender and delicate, to be sure, but workable in a way that Haru’d thought impossible just six months ago. He felt lighter after the first interview, like something cumbersome had been cut away, something he hadn’t even known had been holding him down.

“Of course it was painful, and disappointing, to know that I’d never be able to compete again,” Haru told the magazine reporter. “But I’m still lucky to have been able to compete and represent Japan on the national stage. I’m grateful to be able to say that I pursued my dream, and achieved things that I wanted to, before this accident.”

Deep breath. He thought of Misaki’s advice: _Be honest, and personal._ She had given him the list of questions beforehand so he could think about his answers, but something was crystallizing in him right at that moment, and the canned response he had prepared fell away as he opened his mouth.

“I dedicated the past thirteen years of my life solely to swimming,” he said slowly. “I don’t regret it, but retiring is giving me a chance to be dedicated to other things that are important to me. The people that have stood by my side and supported me this whole time — they deserve the same from me. I’ll never be happy that I was injured, but I’m happy to have time now to try to be as good to them as they were to me. If that makes sense.”

“Perfect sense,” the reporter said, smiling warmly, and moved on to the next question. 

  
  
  


As time wore on, Haru’s presence at the Iwatobi SC became less and less of a big deal. By February, all the kids who wanted autographs had already got them, and sometimes they would still sit by the side of the pool and watch him swim laps, but mostly they just liked to greet him loudly, ask for high-fives, and then jump into the water for their own practice, or run off to the vending machines for snacks, or whatever it was that kids did. Haru honestly didn’t pay them much attention. 

Conversely, Makoto’s popularity at the SC was on an upswing. It’d been many years since Ran and Ren were of an age to be babied, but Makoto’s big-brother instincts were keen as ever. When he came with Haru to the pool, he tended to spend more time humoring the crowds of kids who wanted to play with him, talk with him, joke with him, than actually swimming. 

Ms. Tamura, whose son had recently started swimming lessons, came up to them in the lobby of the SC one afternoon and said knowingly, “Your students will be very lucky to have you as a teacher.” 

Haru, who was in the middle of wrapping Makoto’s scarf around his neck, nodded silently in agreement.

Makoto blushed. “Oh, that’s kind of you to say, but—”

“I mean it,” she continued. “You just have such a way with children. Are you two planning on having any of your own?”

Haru’s fingers stuttered.

“Uh,” Makoto said. 

They had never been asked this question, and had absolutely no answer. Of course people asked all the time, _don’t you want to get married?_ and _don’t you want to settle down and have kids?_ but the implication was that they needed to get out there and start dating so they could each find a nice girl to wed. People didn’t usually ask them about their future _together_. 

When neither of them could come up with a response and their silence stretched into something uncomfortable, Ms. Tamura backtracked.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking a bit distressed, “I didn’t mean to assume — well, I just thought, you two _live_ together, and the way you always _are_ around each other — I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended you!”

“Not at all,” Makoto said, still red in the face. “Um, we… the thing is, I completely understand why you would think that about us, because, uh…” He glanced helplessly at Haru.

Haru shrugged. 

“Well,” Makoto said lowering his voice, “because, actually, you assumed correctly.”

Ms. Tamura beamed. “Oh, lovely! Oh, I’d have been devastated if I was wrong!”

_Weird_ , Haru thought, but it was better than the alternative.

“Anyway, you really would be wonderful parents, I think,” she went on. “And adopting children has gotten so much easier these days, I’ve heard…”

“Listen, Ms. Tamura,” Makoto said, still in a hushed tone, “we haven’t really… told anyone but our friends and family that we’re dating.” Haru didn’t miss the way her eyebrows shot up at that. “So… if you could keep this sort of a secret, we’d really appreciate it.”

Ms. Tamura nodded, but her eyes were twinkling and her lips were pursed like she was trying to keep from laughing. “Of course, boys. I won’t tell a soul.”

  
  
  


On Makoto’s first day of work, the two of them walked together down the steps, greeting Ms. Tamura, Aji and Katsuo (two of the neighborhood cats who’d adopted Makoto), and Ren, who was out watering the Tachibana’s flowerpots. He seemed to have been waiting for them, and called out enthusiastically,

“Good morning Haru! Makoto! Good luck!”

Makoto laughed and thanked him. “It’s only a prep day. Lessons don’t start until next week.”

“Still though!” Ren insisted. “Do your best!”

“I will,” Makoto promised. 

They made the familiar trek into town, along the beach, where a few brave souls were out splashing around in the waves despite the lingering chill in the air. Haru imagined, for a moment, that they were wearing their school uniforms again, and were headed to another first day of school, Makoto happily chattering away, Haru following in silence. He allowed himself feel a twinge of jealousy towards his teenage self, who still had his whole professional swimming career ahead of him. Then he came back to the present, eyed up Makoto beside him in his well-tailored charcoal gray suit and sky blue tie, radiant in the morning sun, and thought decisively, _This is better._

The cherry blossoms were blooming early this year. Makoto kept complaining that his allergies were getting worse, but Haru made him stop in front of the high school anyway, where a couple of big cherry blossom trees umbrellaed over the sidewalk. 

“Say cheese,” Haru said, deadpan, and snapped a picture of Makoto in front of the pale pink blossoms. 

Makoto managed to smile normally for the photo, before letting out a massive sneeze. 

“Ugh,” he said, sniffling. “Do you want a picture as well, Haru?”

“No.”

He let Makoto take one anyway, and then they continued onward. A few blocks later they parted ways, Makoto heading for the elementary school and Haru going downtown to do a bit of shopping. He waved Makoto goodbye and for a brief moment, wished, absurdly, that he could kiss him here on the street. 

“Have a good day,” he said instead. 

“I will.” Makoto smiled warmly. “See you at home.”

Haru headed straight for the stationery store. It had been years since he took any kind of art class, but he didn’t feel like asking the staff for help, so he just picked up whatever he remembered to be useful: some HB pencils, a kneadable eraser, masking tape, a mixing palette, a large pad of heavy cold-pressed paper, paint brushes and professional-grade watercolors. 

Carrying all the art supplies, especially the big pad of watercolor paper, was a task that took two hands. He had intended to go to the home goods store as well today, but decided against it. This, somehow, felt more important. 

He set up in the sunshine of the veranda. It was a little too cold outside to be doing this, but he didn’t care. With his phone propped up against a book and set to the picture of Makoto in front of the cherry blossoms, he began to sketch lightly, finding the form of his broad shoulders, the shape of his mouth, the angle of his eyes mid-smile. It had been years since Haru’d drawn like this and he was rusty, but slowly he built up momentum, muscle memory kicking in as he dipped his brush to water and began mixing paint. The subject matter helped; Haru knew by heart that Makoto’s nostrils curved just so, that the particular brown of his hair was darker at the roots and lighter at the ends, almost golden when reflecting sunlight. He’d spent years committing every detail of Makoto to memory, and once he’d begun to paint, it was as though his hands had just been waiting for a chance to put it all on paper. 

He spent most of the day painting, stopping only when it got too dark to continue. At that point he needed to make dinner anyway; Makoto would be home soon. 

Most evenings in Iwatobi up until now they’d spent together, with Haru preparing dinner and Makoto bustling around in the background, watching TV or doing chores or reading up on the curriculum for the school year. Tonight, alone, Haru felt it was strangely quiet. Like he was back in high school again, spending yet another night by himself.

But unlike in high school, now wherever he looked around the house, there were traces of Makoto. Photos, for one thing, of the two of them from around the world, and random little knickknacks that Makoto lacked the impulse control _not_ to buy, and study books and lesson planning materials, and articles of clothing that were two sizes too big for Haru (but that Haru liked to wear anyway). Not for the first time, Haru felt a rush of gratitude that his parents hadn’t sold the house, that they’d let him keep it, that Makoto had come back with him to fill it back up with life. 

When dinner was finished he set two places at the kitchen table and went to the living room to tidy up his art supplies a bit. It was then that Makoto arrived, shuffling in with a tired, “I’m home.”

“Welcome home,” Haru said. 

“Were you painting?” Makoto said, seeming to perk up a bit in interest. “That’s great.”

“Mm,” Haru said. 

“Can I see?” Makoto crossed the room and flipped the sketchpad open to Haru’s piece. When he saw the image, he froze, eyes wide. 

“It’s not done yet,” Haru said. 

“It’s incredible,” Makoto said, his voice going scratchy. He wiped at his eyes. “Haru, it’s…”

“I couldn’t not paint you,” Haru said, though he knew it was a poor explanation. “I’m so happy with you that sometimes I don’t know how to let it out.” He looked down at his hands. “Sometimes I think that without some kind of outlet, I’ll explode.”

“Don’t explode,” Makoto said, half-laughing. He set the painting down and walked over to Haru. “I love you too much to let you explode. Here, let some of it out on me, I’ll take it.” He curled his hands around the back of Haru’s neck. 

“Are you sure you can take it?” Haru said in a low voice, tilting his head up and bringing his own hands to rest on Makoto’s hips. 

“Let’s find out,” Makoto said. 

The two of them fell to the floor in a lazy tangle of limbs, and dinner grew cold on the table. 

  
  
  


The Saturday before the first day of school, the teachers at the elementary school threw a welcome party for the new staff to kick off the year. Haru had known this was coming, but the thought of Makoto out getting drunk with his new coworkers didn’t quite sit right with him. Not because he disapproved of alcohol, or didn’t want Makoto to have a good time, but because drunk Makoto was incurably chatty and had absolutely no filter. There was no telling what he’d relay to his colleagues in a state of inebriation. 

At 11:23 that night Haru’s cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Makoto. 

“Hello?” he said, sitting up in bed.

“Is this Nanase Haruka?” It was a stranger’s voice. 

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Sorry, I’m Nishimura, I work with Tachibana. He’s here and he’s, um, well he might need some help getting home. Could you come pick him up?”

From the background Haru made out Makoto’s voice slurring, “Haru-chan! Is that Haru?”

He sighed. “I’ll come. Where are you?”

It turned out they weren’t far. Haru met them outside one of the town’s largest izakaya, where Makoto was sitting on the ground happily babbling away and his coworkers were mostly talking in a lively bunch amongst themselves, occasionally taking turns to indulge Makoto in whatever he was saying. 

When he caught sight of Haru, Makoto bounded to his feet. “Oh, you came!”

“I had to,” Haru grumbled. He felt out of place suddenly, in his tracksuit and sneakers. Everyone else was wearing a suit. 

“Thank you, Haru,” Makoto said in sing-song. He took a few unsteady steps forward and threw one arm around Haru’s shoulders, sagging there like deadweight. “Well, my ride is here! I’ll see you all on Monday, then!”

“Easy there, Tachibana,” someone said. 

“Thank you for coming, Nanase-san,” said someone else. “Can you get home alright? We would have called a taxi, but he refused to give us his proper address…”

“It’s _Haru’s_ house, I don’t see what’s so hard to understand!” Makoto called from Haru’s shoulder. Haru was torn between laughing and letting Makoto drop to the pavement. 

“It’s fine,” Haru said. “We’ll walk.”

Makoto’s coworkers agreed to that, and then one of them added suddenly, “Oh! And congratulations on your engagement!”

Now Haru turned to stare daggers at Makoto, who didn’t notice in the slightest. 

“Thank you,” Makoto said, beaming. 

The rest of his coworkers chimed in their congratulations, and Haru had no choice but to mumble, “Thank you,” before lugging Makoto away and making his escape. 

The walk home took longer than it should have. Makoto seemed to have forgotten how to use his feet, and kept tripping over them in the dark. No matter how he clung to Haru, the size difference between them made it difficult for Haru to support Makoto’s weight, and eventually they had to take a break. Haru deposited Makoto onto a bench overlooking the moonlit ocean, and crossed his arms as he caught his breath. 

“You told them about us,” he said.

“Don’t be mad, Haru-chan—”

“Don’t call me Haru-chan.”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not,” Haru said, frustrated. “I just thought we talked about this — that your job has to come first for now.”

“They support us, though,” Makoto said. He curled his knees up to his chest. “I talked about us, and they were genuinely happy for me.”

Haru’s chest tightened. “You talked about us?”

“I couldn’t help it,” Makoto said. “Some of the older guys were complaining about their wives, and the vice-principal about her husband, and when they asked me about my love life I just — I guess I wanted to brag about you and me. And no one said anything weird — we talked about it for a bit and then talked about something else, and that was it.”

The tightness in Haru’s chest didn’t dissipate, but twisted into something different. He’d been so wary, so ready to go on the defense for Makoto, that he had never fully thought about the other scenario: that maybe he didn’t have to. That maybe, even in their provincial town, they could be themselves, uncompromisingly. Haru had thought that they had a whole uphill climb ahead of them, but maybe they’d been walking steadily upwards all along, and the summit was just around the corner. He thought of Ms. Tamura, and the swimming club, and Makoto’s coworkers as they’d showered him with sincere congratulations. 

Makoto’s face was shadowed in the darkness. Haru moved closer, directly in front of him, and reached out his hands. Makoto looked up questioningly.

“C’mon,” Haru said. “Let’s go home.”

Makoto took Haru’s hands and got to his feet, a little more stable now. Together, albeit slowly, they traipsed up the staircase to the house. Makoto leaned on Haru, and Haru leaned back. 

“This seems dangerous,” Makoto remarked, swaying slightly. “We might fall.”

“We might,” Haru said, and he held onto Makoto tighter. “But I don’t think we will.”

  
  
  


On Monday morning, Haru made grilled mackerel for himself, and eggs on toast for Makoto. The scraps from his plate he wrapped up in foil for Makoto to feed to the cats on his way to work.

“They might be getting tired of mackerel, you know,” Makoto suggested. “Don’t you think they’d like to try salmon sometime?”

“If _you_ want to eat salmon, just say so,” Haru said tartly.

Makoto had chosen a less formal outfit for the first day of lessons, and was wearing a light blue button down shirt with slacks. Haru smoothed the collar and dusted off the shoulders for him in the entryway before Makoto slipped into his jacket. 

“I should be home before five today,” Makoto said as he tied his shoes. 

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Mm… curry rice!”

Haru nodded. 

Makoto chuckled. “I’m so spoiled.”

He should have already been on his way, but for some reason Makoto hesitated, standing in place just in front of the door. Haru gave him a shrewd look.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Makoto said. 

“Don’t be,” Haru said firmly. “You’re going to be amazing.” 

Makoto smiled. “Thanks, Haru.”

Haru leaned in to give Makoto a soft kiss, and twined their fingers together. The silver band around Makoto’s finger was cool against Haru’s skin, an anchor. He squeezed until the metal dug into his skin. 

“Have a good day,” he murmured, and kissed Makoto one more time. 

“You too,” Makoto said, pulling back reluctantly. “I’m off, then.”

“Yeah.” Haru let go of Makoto’s hand, and found himself absently touching the ring on his own finger as Makoto slid open the front door. “I’ll be here when you get home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
